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by hubbleultradeepfield



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Europe, Internal Conflict, Male Protagonist, No Dialogue, Original Character-centric, POV Male Character, POV Third Person Omniscient, Portugal - Freeform, Revelations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 04:34:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7560298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubbleultradeepfield/pseuds/hubbleultradeepfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short writing based off of my father's own life story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carlos - my dad](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Carlos+-+my+dad).



> The 'village' I refer to is Aljezur; a small town in Portugal and where my father was born and grew up.

The jagged sound of death disturbs Seba’s restless sleep, eyelids duelling with the screeching alarm to his right, forcing eyes awake. The sunrise intrudes through the crack in the blinds, and he is already contemplating tomorrow’s arrival as he rolls Tuesday’s socks onto his feet. Shuffling over to the kitchen, Seba avoids his dishevelled reflection in the full-length mirror for the seventh time this month.

The dark and bitter instant coffee scrapes down his throat, stirring recollections of himself as a young child, while him and his father pondered through their hometown village in Portugal. Clasping his father’s hand, the pungency of freshly ground coffee beans permeate the calm air as they step into their habitual coffee shop, _Silvas Café_. His father’s head would bow, subconsciously ordering a double short black as Seba scanned the menu, whereupon they’d collectively decide on the nations’ famous custard and cinnamon tart.  
Tourists gave them looks while the boys devoured their respectable tarts, segments of pastry flaked off, a mountain on their laps, the boy and his father exchange laughs. Content and nowhere else in the world to be, the two remained in the tiny cafe that overlooked a narrow river, as lambent streetlights glistened on the river’s rippling surface.  
A child no more, the now wrinkled man stares at the ripples in his coffee cup as he stirs sugar into the tepid liquid.

Outside, Seba’s polished black shoes scrape the gravel beneath, investigating it with the intention to discover something more than just rocky cement. Wanting, needing. Bustling vehicles accelerate past Seba’s side, sweeping his already unkempt hair more askew and the sour acrid of petrol is smeared onto his face causing deliriousness.  
The suffocation of fumes is a stark contrast to memories of the lavender that would wrap itself around Seba’s nose, as he inattentively wondered down cobblestone laneways, following the curvatures of soundless roads. The complacent man would stop every now and then, peering over the small Cliffside village onto the billowing evergreen of valley below, where rice crops roll and weave through each crevice of green. Sentimental, the sound of donkeys’ braying in the distance summons Seba to recall himself at the age of seven. Gripping a heavy swaying bucket with his two hands, spilling about four grains of rice every few meters, the boy waddles in his crimson apple gumboots, soles squelching in the shallow rippling water following his mother in front where she collects the grains from the field.  
After a long morning, the child and his mother would walk back up the vertical hill. Overprotective, taking her son’s hand –and the overflowing bucket- they’d tread up the steep hill whereupon arrival, Seba's mother places homemade dough in the oven and throws purple sweet potatoes in the blue-and-white-veined pot. The timer sounds before the warm, crisp loaf of bread is pulled apart with greedy fingers, serrated knife neglected in the drawer. The potatoes are seasoned along a swig of olive oil.  
Satisfied and almost full, the small boy and his mother giggle as they share witty stories, furrow their brows as the sombre stories and debate about who gets the last piece of bread, settling on halving it. Alas, this now remains but a shadowed picture in his thoughts.

Tired, Seba releases an exasperated sigh he was unaware of withholding and joins the file formation along with everyone else down the plastered-perfect path. The man studies the clouded slate sky with a screaming plea to visit that place once more, never to return back. Seba wants to go _home_. He never felt as though he belonged here; an immigrant to the natives. A foreigner, that’s who Seba is; at least here anyway.  
“Why did I leave?” the wind steals the man of his own words of regret, carrying them away before he can remember why he did leave. It was to see the world. He was happy in the small village, but it wasn’t enough. So, Seba took the waiter job on that cruise liner, thought he’d find his uniqueness on his oceanic venture. But here he is now, ended up in this strange place, and the man feels ashamed of his cultural difference. Seba wants to go home. Longs for the feeling that this place just can’t give him.  
  
As Seba looks around, he can feel everyone staring at him. He knows it. Seba discerns the piercing silence by looking up at the tumultuous, dark and ragged clouds, realising commonalities; neither feel calming at all. The feeling turns into of a cold-sweat and mild panic, like everything's closing in around him. Inching closer and closer as the confrontational click-clacking of shoe soles restrict itself tightly around his eardrums, like a serpent confining its prey; suffocating. Seba picks up his pace, hastily pushing past the watching souls, breath left behind somewhere along the footpath.  
The wheezing man’s scrawny legs involuntarily change direction into an unnoticed cul de sac and Seba immediately halts, noticing blurry alternating hues of green, red and yellow. Lungs fight for oxygen as Seba slowly paces forward, his vision and sense of rationalism attempting to justify the reality before him.  
  
A wave of bewilderment debilitates the furrowed man as he looks up at the flickering sign, distinguishing the dimly projected colours spelling, _Silvas Café;_  oddly, just like the one he'd always visited with his father back home. Saliva a ball at the back of his throat, Seba gulps before entering into the shop.  
As he approaches the coffee-stained counter, Seba peers around the almost empty cafe through glassy eyes, the smell of coffee lingers around the room; accustoming to nostalgic senses.  
“The tart and a double short black, please.” The words dispel in his Portuguese-tinged accent and Seba suppresses a weak cry, swallowing the lump back down.  
The man takes a seat by the window in the dimly-lit coffee shop, the shadow the buildings outside make against the electric streetlights outline the stained creases on his forehead. Not before long, the tart and shot of coffee are set down on the round mosaic surface in front, table slightly wobbling as he picks up the delicacy, taking a bite.

Before swallowing, Seba is disconnected from his thoughts as the sound of muffled laughter tap his shoulder, urging him follow it. He notices a man and a child hunched over their own tarts, the boy sipping on a hot chocolate whilst the man stirs sugar into his coffee. Seba thinks they must be father and son as their dark skin, textured hair and long frames give a correlating indication. Seba simultaneously lets out a grin as the crow’s feet perch on either side of his shining eyes before turning back around.

Seba grasps his cup, gingerly sipping on the steaming black silk. Gazing through the glass pane to nothing in particular, for a moment, Seba muses.  
Contentedness washes over the café walls and the lump is making another appearance as Seba realises that he really is different in this distant country, and maybe that’s okay.  
Seba isn’t sure how he discovered this conversant-looking cafe in such a strange place, or if he is yet to wake from a reverie, but what Seba is sure of is that he is _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos & comments are obviously very appreciated. :)


End file.
